


Quarter Quell

by Liz_d_lizzard



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Quarter Quell, protective!Dean, protective!Sam, tribute!Castiel, tribute!Dean, tribute!Sam, tribute!balthazar, victor!Samandriel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz_d_lizzard/pseuds/Liz_d_lizzard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean live in District Eight, Panem. This is the story of the first Quarter Quell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya! Thanks for reading! I do not own Supernatural or the Hunger Games Trilogy.

                It was a cloudy day in District 8. Dean was working his way back from the mill down the muddy road back to the little shack of a house that he shared with his younger brother Sam and his father.  The saturated dirt from the road was seeping through his thin leather soles and soaking his rough socks. The sky was a bleak grey and Dean was numb from his long day of factory work breathing in the fibers that are spat into air by the buzzing machines.

                You know, he could really go for a drink.  When he saw his little town, he made straight for his nondescript concrete building. `He pushed open the metal door and knelt to unlace his boots when Sam ran and tackled him in a hug. Dean laughed as his little brother buried his head into Dean’s chest. “Hiya Sammy! How was your day?”  Sam looked up at him with bright eyes and a smile.

                 “Really good! The dock workers were really nice today, one even gave me an apple to eat.”  Sam’s eyes lit up Dean’s world, such a stark contrast to the bleak surroundings. Dean smiled at him.

                “Does that mean you’re not hungry for dinner?” Dean joked, lifting an eyebrow, “Cause I certainly wouldn’t say no to some extra soup.”

                Sam’s face dropped into a mock pout. “Dean, you know I’m always hungry!” Dean felt sick, hearing Sam’s words. “For you soup, I mean.” Sam said, realizing that he had hurt his brother. “How was the mill today? Anything interesting happen?”

                “Nah, Sammy. Nothing at all. I just missed you all day.” Dean said as he pressed a kiss into Sam’s hair, then made his way to the small kitchen to start the soup.

                Dean had lied. The mill had been bustling all day, humming with fear, nerves, and speculation about tomorrow’s reaping.  One kid, thirteen, had been so nervous about tonight’s announcement that he got his hand torn open by one of the textile machines in his dizzy distraction, his fingers were almost severed off and the machine was dripping blood like oil all day. Dean still had to work on the machine.

                The first Quarter Quell was going to be announced tonight. This year was the 25th Hunger Games, which meant a special twist on the tribute selection, to be announced on live TV the night before the reaping: tonight.  Dean was nervous and scared for the announcement, but he tried not to let his little brother see his terror. It was his last year in the drawing, as he was eighteen. But Sam was fourteen and still had time left in the pot, and that fact was what gave Dean his nightmares and woke him up screaming in the night. Dean loved his little brother more than life itself, and the thought of him getting reaped was unbearable. _Four more years_ , he thought as he started chopping some pathetic vegetables to throw into the thin soup on the stovetop.

                He stirred the broth, then looked in the cupboard for some biscuits. The kitchen was small and connected directly to the sitting room- dare he call it such. The room had a few crates with thick cloth on them that served as seating and their mandatory viewing screen pushed up against the concrete wall, like a beacon that they were never allowed to just _live_ , that no matter what, they were always under the Capitol’s thumb. It drove Dean insane, and some days he would throw a blanket over it out of hate built out of the oppression.  Sam was sitting on the ground, homework spread out in front of him in a spread.

                Sam, as he was still relatively young, took a half-day of classes in the morning, then went down to the docks to work unloading cotton from District 11 and then loading the crates of textiles onto ships bound for the Capitol and career Districts. It was hard work for Sam and Dean hated that his brother had to do it for the shit pay he got, but it was better than mill work, so Dean bore it. Sam would come home with bruised and calloused hands and Dean would work some salve into the rough skin and bandage his hands, praying that Sam wouldn’t have to work like this one day. Dean came home worse, most days,  but his injuries were invisible: lung problems from the fibrous air and his feet were a wreck from the concrete factory floors, but he could hide that from Sam with relative ease. His coughing could be covered with a claim of a throat tickle and his limp from the sores on his feet could be faked gone around Sam. Their father, when he was home, would do his best to buy the boys medicine and bandages on the black markets in town, but his visits were few and far between. He was an engineer, working to design textile machines and almost never home. He sent money home every so often from his work sites, but he was virtually absent in Dean’s mind, as he was divided between Sam and Dean and the Milligans, their father’s other family. Adam and                 Kate saw John’s face more often than the Winchester brothers ever did, and got more of his salary.

                Money was an issue. The mills demanded long hours and paid very little, as they were under no obligation to treat their workers well. Dean worked hard to put food in front of Sam, often needing to take extra hours to buy the shriveled vegetables that were ever increasing in price for the thin soup he served every night. Dean looked over at Sammy, working hard on his homework, and smiled small and sad. Sammy was his world, his motivation to push through the long days. After every reaping, Dean would come home and fall to the floor, thanking whatever god could hear him that Sam hadn’t gotten reaped. Sam was going to be an engineer, like their father, Dean hoped. He knew that though _he_ could never break out of the horrible life he lived, _Sam_ could make a name for himself in the world, and be happy with a family of his own.

                “Sammy! Dinner is ready! Hurry up before I eat it all,” Dean shouted as he put the two wooden bowls of soup onto their crate they used as a kitchen table. Sammy scrambled over and dug into his soup with a hungry smile. Dean sipped his smaller portion slowly, savoring the warmth of the thin liquid. Sam finished quickly. _Too quickly_ , Dean thought. _I need more hours, Sam needs to eat_. They both were thin, but still made of wiry muscle from their labor during the day. _More. Sammy deserves more._

                Sam looked up from his empty bowl. “Thank you so much, Dean. I love your soup.” He smiled, still hungry but wanting to ease his brother’s abundant guilt. He paused for a moment, thinking. “When is the announcement on?” He asked offhandedly, but Dean could hear his fear in the shake of his voice.

                “About an hour,” Dean answered with a sigh. He leaned forward. “Sammy, you’re not going to get reaped. I promise. I won’t let it happen.” Sammy nodded, solemn, then went back to do his homework.

\---------------------

                They were both seated in front of the mandatory screen an hour later, twiddling their thumbs and not speaking. The screen suddenly flickered to life and a picture of the Capitol appeared, the citizens screaming in delight and dressed in their gaudy way. These people made Dean sick. Sometimes he didn’t even believe that they existed, their luxury and inhuman decadence was impossible for him to fathom, sitting in his threadbare home. The grand stage that rose above the throngs of Capitol citizens swept into view, President Thorn standing at his glass podium and clothed in a sharply tailored orange suit. He wore thick-rimmed cyan glasses and a sickly sweet sneer that would send any regular child screaming. The man was wretched and Dean despised everything about him, right down to his curly purple hair.

                President Thorn waved at the crowd below and then held up a hand, asking for quiet and attention. When the roar of applause died down, he nodded and began, pushing his glasses up father on his face in a display of false shyness.  He began, his voice booming and too deep for his glossy exterior. “Citizens of Panem, today is a _very_ special day.” He paused a moment, for dramatic effect, Dean supposed. “Today, we unveil the guidelines for the first ever Quarter Quell. As you know, after the rebellion of the Districts, the Hunger Games was established to remind the Districts of their treason and to ensure harmony throughout this country. It was written, when the Hunger Games was established twenty five years ago, that every quarter of a century a special Hunger Games will be held to remind each new generation of their District’s treachery. This is the first ever Quarter Quell, so this is indeed a great excitement that I hope can unite us all in the coming months.”

                “Dean?” Sammy mewled.

                “Yeah?”

                He looked over at Dean, voice steady and eyes flaming. “I hate them.”

                “So do I.”

                Thorn lifted up an envelope to be viewed by the mass of colorful people below. He then dramatically brought it back down and slid it open, unfolding the paper and reading, “It is decreed that for this, the twenty fifth annual Hunger Games, to remind the Districts that they each stand alone and must be punished alone for their individual crimes, the male tributes will all be selected from one district and all the females from another.” Dean’s heart leapt at the huge chance that no one from Eight will be reaped this year and that Sammy could sleep soundly for another twelve months. He turned to his brother, smiling.

                “Sammy, do you know what this means?!” Sam nodded and a tentative smile graced his face.

                “No reaping.”

                They turned their attention back to the TV. Thorn’s voice boomed: “The Districts will now be selected.” The crowd roared with excitement, thrilled with the announcement of a twist on their gruesome entertainment. A huge glass bowl was brought out onto the Capitol stage, wheeled in by a floral and plaid skinned secretary. Sammy breathed in and Dean held his breath.

                Thorn shushed the crowd once again with the palm of his hand. “The female tributes for the First Quarter Quell will be selected from…” He reached into the giant orb and plucked out one of the twelve pieces of folded paper and brought it up to the podium. He unfolded the slip with his thin, long fingers. His eyes lifted, smiling at the crowd. “District Two!”

                 Dean closed his eyes. Sammy brought his knees to his chest. They could almost taste the screams coming from the daughters in Two.

                Thorn set the paper down and ran his hands over his orange suit, flattening it. “Excellent! Now, the male tributes will be selected from…” He dipped his hand back in and picked a paper. Once again, he unfolded it with grandeur and his eyes lifted again, smiling. “Congratulations, District Eight!”

                Sam screamed. Dean froze. There was a moment of shock and lightning as cold crackled over Dean’s nerves. Sam jumped into his lap and buried his head into the crook of his brother’s neck, sobbing and screaming. Dean just held his shaking form, eyes squeezed closed and mind in shock.

\----------------

                Dean held Sam all night. He tried to put him into his own bed but Sammy kept begging for Dean to stay with him, and Dean couldn’t say no. They stayed in Dean’s bed, Sam in Dean’s lap and Dean running his hands up and down his back and through his hair. Eventually, Sam’s sobbing receded and he drifted into a tumultuous sleep, but Dean stayed awake, holding his reason for living in his arms, wanting desperately to protect him from the world.

                When the sun broke over the horizon and the town started to peel open its eyes, Dean gently shook Sam awake in his arms. Quietly, his lips pressed to Sam’s temple, he whispered “Come on, Sammy. Let’s get ready.”

                Dean got Sam’s nicest clothing out while Sam sat frozen, eyes drooped and dead. He set them in front of Sam, folded and clean. A small noise came from Sam.“Dean?”

                “Yeah?”

                “I’m going to be brave.” Dean’s heart shattered as he watched his little brother’s shaking form.

                “You don’t have to be brave. You can be scared. You are allowed to be afraid of the rea-”

                “I’m not scared of being reaped.” A moment passed.

                “You’re not?” Dean asked, sitting down on the end of the bed, his body putting a droop in the thin mattress.

                “No. I’m scared of _you_ being reaped.”

                Dean’s heart sank. He looked Sam dead in the eye. “Sammy. We’re not going to get reaped. Neither of us. We are _not_ going to be reaped. There are almost four hundred boys in the pool and only twelve are being pulled. It’s not going to happen. Think about the math, Sammy. Do the math. What are our chances?” Sam’s nose wrinkled in concentration.

                “Around a three percent chance that one of us will be picked.”

                Dean nodded and set a hand on Sam’s knee, “Exactly. That’s very, very small, Sammy.”

                “But it’s twelve times more than usual!” Dean couldn’t think of a reply.

                “It’ll be okay, Sammy.” Sam nodded curtly. They both turned to change into their reaping clothes.

\----------------

                The plaza was packed with grungy citizens, all covered with soot or sweat or fear. The smell was unbearable. The town meeting space and reaping stage was wedged between three towering textile factories that perpetually heaved billows of black smoke out and into the choking air. The ground was uneven and grey, and everything in sight oozed poverty and oppression. The stage was large and rectangular and loomed over the crowds of filthy people below, a mocking echo of the Capitol’s display last night. Above it was a monstrous screen like the ones each citizen had in their home. Just beyond the lip of the stage was a stockade that was slowly being filled with those boys eligible for reaping. Behind them, a larger stockade was packed with families, friends, criminals, foes, and all other citizens in the district, united only by their anger at the Capitol for taking their children. It was quiet.

                Dean and Sam stood together, hand in hand, among the boys in the front-most stockade. They were silent and sill, each hiding their panic and fear from the other. Around them stood their peers, boys they knew from school and boys who worked in the factory alongside Dean. They boy who had his hands minced in the machine the day before was a few rows down from the brothers, bandaged heavily from the wrist down and eyes wide, glued to the ground, but certainly not excluded from the reaping. 

                The boy who sometimes bullied Sam, stealing his homework and lunch every once and a while (he would never tell Dean, though) was now silent and looked like a terrified rodent. The son of the owner of the factory where Dean worked that would yell at the workers on the factory floor just for the sheer entertainment was there, shaking and twitching in fear, blonde hair falling in disarray. Sam liked the idea that now they were all on the same level, even if it was in such gruesome conditions. He liked that in the end, money doesn’t matter, as everyone could still be reaped.

                Out of seemingly nowhere, an electric-blue man-- Dean thought he was a man, but he couldn’t quite tell-- appeared on the stage. He was smiling bright and his clean white teeth were startling through the smog in Eight. His clothing was all different patterns of vibrant blue, and he looked like he had rolled through one of the crates of luxury fabrics Sam loaded onto ships covered in glue. Sam almost laughed, would have if he weren’t so terrified.

                The man made his way up to the microphone in the center stage, still waving despite the silence and hateful stares being hurled at him. Once there, he spoke, voice exaggerated an too loud, too cheery in the bleak surroundings, “Hello, District Eight! Welcome to our first ever Quarter Quell!” He was met with silence. He smiled bigger and continued, “Now, I know you are _all_ as _excite_ d as I am, so let’s do this!” Again, silence.

                The large screen above the stage flickered to life. The obligatory Capitol video, showing the rebellion and the destruction that it brought was played. It was gory and brutal, showing death and starvation and chaos. _Now, each year, one young man and woman from each district will fight to the death to honor their district and to remind all of Panem of the Capitol’s benevolence towards its citizens._ The blue man stepped forward to the microphone once again, teeth gleaming. “Well, as you all know this year is a little different, isn’t it?” He laughed heartily. Still, there was silence. He flashed an annoyed look back at the crowd. “The time has come, of course, to select twelve young men for the honor of representing District Eight in the First Quarter Quell!” A replica of the huge glass orb used in the Capitol was wheeled onto the stage by a peacekeeper and left next to the announcer. It was about half full with small slips of paper.

                “Number one…” The man dipped his hand in and Dean took in a breath. “Damien Fox!” A shriek from who was likely Damien’s mother pierced the silence. There was some shuffling as a tall, lanky boy with muddy hair and blank eyes made his way up onto the stage. _Eleven left,_ Dean thought.

                “Next.” He picked a slip. “George Sylvester.” Silence. Shuffling. Another, younger boy appeared on stage. _Ten left._

                “Third!” Another name. Shuffling. Another boy.

                “Fourth!” Name. Shuffle. Boy.

                “Fifth!” Name. Shuffle. Boy.

                “Sixth!”

                “Seventh!”

                Dean was counting down the twelve, not caring who they were as long as they weren’t his little brother, begging whatever would hear him: _not Sammy, not Sammy, not Sammy, not Sammy, please._

                “Eighth!” The name was pulled. “Dean Winchester!”

                Dean’s eyes snapped open. Sam looked at his brother in pure shock, his mouth gaping, terror behind his irises.

                “Dean?” Dean was bewildered. He waited a second, stunned. Then, slowly, he took a hesitant step towards the stage. Sammy pulled on his arm, tugging him back.

                “No. No. NO!” Sammy screamed, clinging to his brother. Dean fought him, trying to save Sammy, protect Sammy, help Sammy, but Sam wouldn’t let go. “I’m going with you,” he whispered. Then louder, “Dean. I’m going with you.” Sam, determined, stood up tall and looked the announcer dead in the eye. In his strongest voice he spat, “I’m. Going. With. My. Brother.”

                The announcer was stunned. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of confusion. He shook it off his face, then smiled again, saying into the microphone: “Alright, it appears we have a volunteer. Come on up here you two!”

                Sam and Dean walked through the parted crowd of boys to the stage and ascended the steps, Sam gripping his brother’s arm tightly. The announcer smiled at them, then pulled Sam over to the mic. What’s your name, boy?”

                Sammy looked at the announcer in disgust and then turned to look out over the crowd. “Sam Winchester.”

                “Very good!” He smiled. Too Bright.

                Sam walked over to Dean who was in the line of tributes and Dean pulled him into his chest, hugging him tight. Sam let out a little sob, “You’re not leaving me.”

                “Next! Tenth is…” Paper. Name. Shuffle. Boy.

                “Eleventh!” Paper. “Castiel Novak!” Shuffle. A boy with messy, dark hair and shockingly blue eyes moved forward in a haze of fear and disbelief. Dean paid no attention to him.

                “And, last but not least:” Paper. Name. Shuffle. Boy.

 


	2. Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbyes, the mentor, and twelve careers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading! :)

                “Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes for the twenty-fifth annual Hunger Games!” The cheerful announcer shouted as he swept his hand, gesturing down the line of the boys, their faces a pallet of fear, denial, disbelief, and panic. Sam was still latched to his brother, and Dean still held him, face stone cold and glaring at the foggy horizon.

                Each boy was taken into a separate back room, waiting for their last goodbyes to their family. _Joke’s on them,_ Dean thought bitterly to himself as he picked at the horrid orange couch he was currently sitting on. _I only have Sammy, and he’s coming too._ Dean felt numb, mostly. The only thing that was in his brain was _protect Sammy, save Sammy, help Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy_. He was in overdrive, his mind reeling with his little brother.

                He didn’t notice that he had a visitor. Dean looked up when he saw boots in his field of vision. Jo was there, tackling him into a crushing hug as soon as he sat up. He pulled her in, a tear falling. “Jo.” He whispered, eyes closed. She pulled away after a long moment and held his face, her eyes sad.

                “Your brother…” She choked out. Jo knew that Sam was Dean’s world, and though she was his best friend, she knew she came second to Sammy. “He—he’s going too…”

                “Yeah,” Dean said quietly.

                “That means either he’s coming back, or neither of you are.” Jo knew.

                “Yeah.” Dean pulled her in again, nose buried in her long hair. He was shaking with sobs. Jo stroked his close-cut hair, trying to steady his wracking body. “He’s coming back.” Jo nodded, hand still in his hair. “I’m going to do everything in my power to get him back, Jo.” He paused, another shake running down his spine. “And—and when he does get back, please take care of him, yeah? Look out for him, make sure he does his homework.” Dean sniffled, laughing at the absurdity. She nodded, squeezing his shoulders.

                “I will, Dean. I will.” And then the Peacekeeper was dragging her away from him, her sad eyes and a hasty “I love you” the last thing he got from her. He was alone again.

\-------------

                The Peacekeeper, after another few minutes that Dean spent pacing the room, his eyes predatory and his blood boiling with anger at the Capitol, grunted at Dean, “Time to go, kid.”

                He opened the door and Dean stopped pacing, instead he turned and walked out, the Peacekeeper following him, poking him in the back with his gun every once in a while. “Left,” he barked. Dean turned and was faced with a large metal door. The Peacekeeper reached around him and undid the industrial latch, swinging the door open and prodding Dean through it.

                He was on a platform, train tracks a few feet away and greasy concrete flooring. The other boys were there, too, each with their own Peacekeeper and most with tears in their eyes from seeing their families for what was very likely the last time.

                Sam was far away from him at the end of the line of tributes. Dean was looking at him, trying to catch his attention, when the announcer from earlier, his cheery smile gone, came out and stood to face the boys. His clothing was even more ridiculous up close, and Dean almost burst out laughing at what a stark contrast the gaudy garment was to the sullen boys. “Tributes,” he barked, his hands clasped behind his back, “You will be paired off into twos for mentorship and board. Listen up,” Dean was very happy at the news, and he tried again to catch Sammy’s eye because he knew that they would be paired. The announcer held a clear clipboard and read off it, “Car One.” He pointed to the front most car of the train that had just arrived, and then looked back at his clipboard. “Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester, mentor Samandriel Malcom.”

                Dean was shocked. He wasn’t with Sammy… What was he going to do? He made his way toward the car with trepidation. On the way over, he finally caught Sammy’s eyes, scared but determined, and he smiled. Sam’s face lit up, well, as much as it could through the fear, and Dean gave him a reassuring nod. The Peacekeeper prodded him in the back, pushing him into the metal train car.

\----------

                The interior was plush, lavish even. It was open and large—a huge bar and a sofa with shiny pillows. The carpet was thick and Dean thought for a second that his muddy boots would ruin it, but then he remembered where he was and rubbed his heels in a little more.

                The whole car had a foreign feel to it. Dean had never been in a place so decorated, and he felt immediate hate for it and anyone involved in it.

                He was standing just in front of the door he came in, separated from the seating in area of the car by a frosted glass pane that he was currently peering around. A thin, young man came over to him, smiling. This man’s smile was much different from the announcer’s cold and forced one. The man had a sharp, young face, but kind and open eyes. When he saw Dean he walked right over to him and offered his hand. “Dean!” He spoke while they shook hands. “It is so nice to meet you! My name is Smandriel, I’m going to be your mentor for the Games.”

                Dean was shocked. The man was friendly, and kindness sent Dean straight to hostility. Dean peered at him through lowered lids. “ _You’re_ my mentor?”

                Samandriel gave a little amused breath and then stepped backwards. He was in a clean black suit and a purple tie, and Dean didn’t trust him. “Yes. You might recognize me, I’m the victor from the 19th Games? District 5?” Samandriel looked hopeful. He wanted Dean to know that he was very much like him, and he was only there to help, not exploit.

                Dean did remember him, now that he brought it up. The 19th Games were gut-wrenching. They were so gruesome to watch that there was a major rule change—no cannibalism, punishable by instant death.  That arena was tundra, a barren wasteland of cold and no food. Dean remembered that he made Sammy leave the room for some of the horrific violence over a corpse that was being shown. Dean had prayed that night, too, that Sam would never be that hungry.

                Dean remembered Samandriel. He was the only contestant who knew how to build a fire, and he won by living on the outskirts of the arena, never coming into contact with any other tribute. By the time he won, he was severely hypothermic and starved half to death. It was not pretty. It was amazing that that emaciated, frozen little fifteen-year-old was now standing in front of him, healthy and beaming. It gave Dean hope for Sam.

                Samandriel patted him on the shoulder. “Dean, let’s get you some food and have ourselves a little chat.”

                Dean nodded, then went to sit down at the elaborately-set dinner table. Another boy was sitting over on the green-leather couch, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. His dark hair was messy, which wasn’t uncommon in District Eight, but his hands were clean and his clothes were pressed. He looked up at Dean with shocking-blue eyes. “Your brother,” he said, his voice dark and steady. “Your brother volunteered.”

                Dean nodded, studying the boy. “Yeah, he did.”

                “And you’re… You were mill workers?”

                “I am. Sammy’s a part-time student.” Dean turned to face the boy better. “What are you?” he asked, suspicious.

                “It’s not important.” Dean nodded, knowing how the boy felt.

                “I’m Dean.” He put out his hand, offering a small smile.

                “Castiel.” They shook hands. Dean relaxed a little.

                “So,” he said, leaning back in his seat, “how old are you, Casti—el?”

                Castiel relaxed a little, too, excited to maybe have someone to talk to for the journey. “I’m seventeen. You?”

                “Eighteen.”

                “Well, that’s very unfortunate,” he commented, a hint of joking in his voice.

                “Why in the hell is being eighteen unfortunate? I’m legal. I get to screw older guys, how is that bad?” Dean was amused by this kid. He figured he ought to at least have one ally in the arena, and this kid was a good start.

                Castiel was looking at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You’re gay?”

                Dean realized what he had just said and a blush blossomed across his cheeks. “Uh. Yeah.” He paused for an awkward moment. “But, it doesn’t matter, dude. I can still kick some ass with a knife.” He faked stabbing the air with his hand, trying to make light of the moment.

                Castiel looked considerably more comfortable for some inconceivable reason, and he smiled at Dean. “You really care for your brother. Don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, but Dean nodded anyway. “And you are going to protect him, aren’t you.” Dean nodded again. “And you’re—”

                “Man, stop with the questions about me. You’re creeping me out, Cas.” The nickname just happened. No thought.

                “Cas?” he asked, looking at Dean with a smirk.

                “Yeah, kid, your name’s a mouthful.”

                “I like it.” Cas smiled and looked over Dean’s head at something behind him.

                “Okay, you two, let’s get to work.” Samandriel had sat across the table from Dean, his elbows on the tablecloth. “I see you two have met.” Castiel got up from the couch—taller than Dean expected—and sat next to Dean, facing Samandriel.

                “Here’s what’s going to happen. In two days, we will reach the Capitol.” The direness of the situation hit Dean in the face. His mind switched into predatorial, protecting mode, focused on Sammy and Samandriel. Cas leaned forward, down to business too, Dean assumed. “In the Capitol, the four of us—you two, myself, and your publicist, Kelly Graffe—will be a team. We will be on one floor of the Tribute Holding building and we will strategize and work together.” Both boys nodded, intense and listening closely. “The next few weeks will be quite intense. You have the Tribute Parade, your styling sessions, your training, and, most importantly, your evaluations.”Dean knew what these were, in theory, as he had watched previous Games like the rest of the country, but now that he was the one participating, he wanted to know as much as possible.

                “Samandriel,” Castiel but in, “What’s the overall strategy? What’s the angle we’re going to try to play?” Cas looked intense, and Dean wanted to know what his angle was. “I’ve watched other Games. Are we going to ally, are we going to hide and wait like you did, are we going to shoot first ask questions later? Are we going to spend our time crowd-pleasing for sponsors or sleeping and training?”

                “Most importantly,” Dean turned to face Castiel. “Are we going to be allies?”

                Cas looked at him, face hesitant. Something in his gut was screaming at him to ally with this boy _now_ or face the consequences later. “Yeah,” he nodded, “Yeah, it’ll be good to have someone to count on.”

                Samandriel smiled. “Alright. That’s a very smart decision. With two sets of hands and eyes, more can be done, and you’re more likely to live. We can strategize together, run scenarios and talk about terrain adaptation.”

                “Three,” Dean pointed out.

                “What?” Samandriel asked.

                “There will be three of us. Me, Cas, and Sammy, my brother.”

                “Ah, yes,” Samandriel nodded, “I heard about that. Well, that’s fine, but you’ll have to find time to relay any of our plans to him in secret.”

                Dean nodded. “I will. He doesn’t need to know everything, we can fill him in in the arena.”

                “Alright. Here’s the plan: You boys are both older and good-looking. For both of you, we’ll play up your ‘charming’ qualities. Teenage Capitol girls love to beg daddy for sponsor money. Kelly will work with you in detail on that side of things, so let’s focus on strategy. Dean, strengths and weaknesses?”

                “Um, I’m great with a knife and I’m pretty damn pain-tolerant. I’ve got some medical training and I’m pretty used to being on my feet all day.”

                “Great, you can use a weapon. That’s very useful. What are your weaknesses?”

                “My  brother.” There was a pause.

                Castiel  broke the quiet. “No, he’s a strength. Will you kill for him?” Dean nodded, looking at Cas’s electric eyes. “Good. Use that to your advantage.”

                “And you, Castiel?” Samandriel prompted towards the dark-haired teen, “What are your strengths?”

                “I’m fast. Very fast.”

                “Anything else?” Samandriel asked, kind toward the boy.

                “Well, I’m a thief,” Cas said, looking ashamed of it.

                “What do you mean you’re a thief?”

                “I’m a thief, a con artist, a manipulator. I can get you to do exactly what I want, the way I want, when I want. I can steal the clothes off your back and you wouldn’t notice. I coul’d rob a house full of very awake people and never be noticed.” He was emberassed, clearly upset about his ill-begotten talent. “I’m an orphan, you see. So, I had to steal when I was a kid. I’m fucking good at it, too.”

                Dean was intrigued by Cas, trying to figure him out. Samandriel was beaming. “You have no idea how happy that makes me, Castiel. Your shit childhood could just be your saving grace.” He leant forward over the table and pointed a finger at Cas. “You, kid, have just made the game a whole lot more interesting.”

                Cas gave a small smile, realizing that maybe he wouldn’t be a burden to Dean. “Good. I’m glad I can be useful.”

\------

                Over the next two hours, Samandriel and the two boys worked out scenarios that could go down in the arena. They discussed terrains and adaptations to each. They discussed prioritizing necessities. “Sometimes, you’re going to have to pick between staying warm and staying hydrated. You need to know which will kill you fastest.” They were sitting on the leather couch, drinks in hand and tones serious.

                “Water first,” Castiel stated.

                Samandriel shook his head. “No. Listen: water you can go almost three days without and food for over a month. If you’re in an extreme weather condition, desert, tundra, downpour, rainforest, priority _number one_ is shelter, got it? You die in thirty minutes from the hypothermia. You die in three hours from heat stroke. If you can either grab a weapon or a tarp which do you pick?”

                “Tarp,” they answered in unison. Dean stored the info.

                “Now, water,” Samandriel continued. “This is important: if you’re not _positive_ that it’s drinkable, don’t drink it. Bathe if it’s hot, or fish if you can, but _do not_ drink it if you don’t know if it’s safe. You’ve got days to find more, and a microbe in your body will be the death of you. I’ll get you a filter as soon as possible with sponsor money, but it could be a day or two. If worse comes to worse, try to get it boiling for at least five minutes just to kill as much as you can.” The boys nodded.

                “Okay. Let’s go through some arena possibilities. Let’s hear some.”

                “Tundra,” Dean prompted. Samandriel winced.

                “Tundra won’t come up again.” He left it at that. Dean felt bad for bringing it up.

                “Forest,” Castiel suggested, not seeing Samandriel’s momentary pain.

                “Forest hasn’t been used in a few years, so it’s a possibility. In a mild-climate forest, focus is water and weapons. Shelter isn’t so much an issue because you aren’t going to freeze or burn to death. In a mild climate, weapons and combat are going to be more important as the elements won’t kill fast enough to satisfy the twelve careers you’ll be in with.”

                “What?” Cas said, startled by the comment.

                “Twelve careers? I thought there were only four each game?” Dean asked, suddenly worried.

                “District Two is a career district. Twelve girls, all eighteen, likely, who are highly trained in combat will be in there with you. This is the Quarter Quell, after all.” Dean was hit with the information. He hadn’t realized he was going to be up against twelve careers _at once_.

                “Okay, so how do we deal with them,” Cas asked Samandriel, looking at Dean’s shocked face.

                “You do not confront them. You kill them in their sleep. Cas, you will be perfect for that.” Cas nodded and Dean sat up.

                “Don’t get in a sword fight with a career. Got it.” Dean nodded in understanding. “How do we kill them?”

                “With stealth. Mostly, it’s going to be a waiting game. At their peak, even the weakest of the bunch will be more lethal than you could ever imagine. If you plan on attacking them, do it late in the game, after you’ve run down their supplies. Cas, this is your job. If you can, try to steal or destroy their supplies. If this is going to be a war of attrition, starve them out before you go at them with knives.”

                “What about the Cornucopia?” Cas asked.

                “ _Do not_ go head-in when the countdown is over. Almost half the tributes will die day one in the scramble for the Cornucopia. Do not be one of those people. If you see a bag close and on the way to our strategized location, grab it. Get some sort of supplies, but don’t get caught up in the weapons in the back, it’s a good way to get killed.”

                It had grown dark, at the train car was cloaked in shadows. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Get some sleep, boys. Tomorrow you meet Kelly, and we’ll talk image.” Samandriel stood and smiled. “I’ll be in my room,” he pointed to a glossy mahogany door, “if you need me. Try not to need me. Your rooms are through that door.” He pointed to a door on the opposite side of the car. He said with a tired wave, “Goodnight.”

                Cas stood. He looked at Dean. “Shall we explore?” Dean stared at him. Was he… flirting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is a Romance story, so this is just a little hint of what's coming up! :) Review, even if it's hate! Thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks! Review please, even if it's flames :)


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